He flew into the park. Dante waited for him, shifted, in the deepest dark, near where the trees clustered, just by the lakeside.
So good of you to come and die, he said. And Tom could feel him casting cold binds of domination and power over his mind. Nets of cold control.
But Tom held on to what he knew was true. To what he loved. The image of Kyrie and Notty, sleeping in the moonlight. The George, shining like a neon jewel through the snow. Anthony at the grill. Conan tending tables. The images burned within him like warm fires. Like home fires, calling to his heart.
Mine, mine, mine, he said, and while he caught Dire trying to hold on to these images, to threaten them, to tell Tom they were weaknesses, he couldn't hold them.
Tom's love for his family, his friends, his diner, shone through, warming his soul, and Dire's cold thoughts slipped off. He had only hatred and barrenness to offer. And those were never very strong weapons.
After that, it was easy. The dragon, after all, could fly. The dire wolf couldn't. He looked almost small, in the dark, amid the trees and the snow.
The vicious teeth tried to rend Tom's wing, as Tom approached, but Tom flipped over, suddenly, and bit the dire wolf's neck. Hard.
Tom grabbed it by the neck and shook it, as Dire started to shift, under his jaws—guessing Tom would have more trouble killing a human than an animal. A pitiful human fist hit the dragon's scales. A forlorn human scream echoed. Again and again, Dire tried to cast his cold uncaring spell upon Tom's mind—Tom pressed harder.
He tasted blood, and recoiled from it, but forced his jaws to close. The taste made him gag, but he persisted. Bone crunched. Dire's head and body fell, two separate parts.
It was truth that Dire loved death and pain—or causing them. But Tom loved life. And while Tom lived he would keep those he loved safe. Which meant Dire must die.
Afterwards, Tom took the head, and the body, and swam with them, deep into the cold, dark lake—after breaking the ice covering on it. He found that there were caves, on either side of the lake, leading quite deep under the city, perhaps to what had once been mines and were now flooded. He put the head and the body in separate tunnels, and blocked the entrance with large stones. He didn't want either ever found.
And then, half frozen, he swam back, and walked home.
After a shower, after rinsing his mouth with mouthwash, again and again, and again, Tom put his robe on and went to the kitchen, where he put paid to two packages of sandwich ham while the dozen eggs they had just bought boiled enough to not be repulsive.
When the craving for protein abated, still feeling chilled, Tom opened the door to Kyrie's room and called, softly, "Kyrie?"
She opened her eyes, and Notty's head shot up. "Yes?"
"Do you mind if I sleep here? Just sleep? I mean . . . I just . . . want to be with you."
Kyrie sat up in bed. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I'm just . . . I'm very cold."
"Are you coming down with something?"
"I don't think so. I'm just . . . I just need company."
She shifted to one side of the double bed, taking Notty with her, leaving him space. Tom climbed in, and curled up on the mattress, looking at Kyrie and Notty, who was now parading back and forth between the two of them and purring, the contented purr of a cat with two body servants.
"Kyrie," Tom said, wanting to talk, wanting to explain this feeling that wasn't regret or guilt, but had shades of both. He'd taken a life. He'd killed someone who'd lived thousands of years. He'd had to do it. None of them would be safe till he was dead. So why was it that this thing he'd done made him feel so cut off from the rest of humanity?
He moved fractionally towards Kyrie. "Listen," he said.
Notty jumped up, back arched and hissed towards Tom. His pose was so possessive of Kyrie that Tom laughed aloud. "Yes, yes, your girl cat, Notty. I'll behave."
He petted the ruffled kitten till Kyrie said, softly, "What is it?"
He looked at her. Her eyes were half closed. He smiled. The talk would wait. Tonight was not the night to try to explain what he'd done or how he felt. He wanted more than anything to hold Kyrie, to love her. But tonight was not the night for that, either.
Let the night close itself upon its horror. Let wonders unfold another time. "Nothing," he said quietly.
He petted Notty till he passed from wakefulness into a dream where he was holding Kyrie in the midst of a field of snow. And it was very warm.